"Hey? What?" I grunted, trying to collect my perceptions.
"A reporter!" If Winnie had said a Bengal tiger, she couldn't have looked more terrified.
"Great Scott! Win—I remember! Clear out, I'll be down in a minute."
I dressed in record time and went downstairs in three leaps.
In the library, I found Aunt Lucy, wearing an expression that she might have shown if the garbage man had asked her to a dance.
But Winnie was eagerly drinking in the story poured forth by the said reporter, who was quite evidently enjoying his audience.
"Oh, Chet, this is Mr. Bemis of The Meteor. He's telling us all about the—you know—what happened."
Winnie was too timid to say the word murder, and I was sorry she had to hear the awful tale from any one but myself. However, there was no help for it now, and I joined the group and did all I could to bring Aunt Lucy's eyebrows and nose down to their accustomed levels.
But it was an awful story, make the best of it, and the truth had to be told.
"It is appalling," conceded Aunt Lucy, at length, "but the most regrettable circumstance, to my mind, is your connection with it all, Chester."